


I Try To Keep Myself Out of Your Bad Dreams

by Duke_Bird



Category: Les Misérables (2012), Les Misérables - All Media Types
Genre: Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Unhealthy Coping Mechanisms, crying sex, the Sadrousal fic
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-04-08
Updated: 2013-04-08
Packaged: 2017-12-07 20:45:29
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,596
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/752907
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Duke_Bird/pseuds/Duke_Bird
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Madeleine deals with the death of Bishop Myriel by sleeping with Javert. This is... probably not a terribly healthy coping mechanism.</p>
            </blockquote>





	I Try To Keep Myself Out of Your Bad Dreams

**Author's Note:**

  * For [everyone in the Les Mis fandom you are all so lovely](https://archiveofourown.org/gifts?recipient=everyone+in+the+Les+Mis+fandom+you+are+all+so+lovely).



> From [this prompt](http://makinghugospin.livejournal.com/11823.html?thread=4652847#t4652847) on the kink meme.
> 
> title is taken from Noah Gundersen's song 'David'
> 
> beta'd by [sfumatosoup1](http://sfumatosoup1.tumblr.com/)

It was in the middle of his third thrust that Javert noticed that the whimpers coming from the man underneath him were not cries of pleasure. He stilled his hips, but even then the sound went on, and when he tentatively touched Madeleine’s trembling cheek with his lips, he found it wet and unsteady in the dark room.

“Monsieur?” he asked nervously, stroking a hand up and down the man’s side as if he were calming a horse. “Are you alright? Am I hurting you?”

Madeleine made no response, but his small cries seemed to increase in their desperation, becoming broken, empty, open-mouthed sobs.

“Please!” Javert cried out, too-loud words ringing in the quiet room. “Tell me what is wrong, so that I may set it right!”

But Madeleine made no response. Javert slid a hand under Madeleine’s body to feel that his arousal was still there, harder than ever; it was leaking nearly as profusely as his eyes.

This new information, far from clarifying things, only made Javert more bewildered. Unsure of what else to do, he put his lips to Madeleine’s ear and whispered, “I’m going to pull out now.”

“No!” Madeleine gasped, the first word he had spoken since Javert had laid him down on the mattress. His hands scrabbled uselessly at Javert’s hips, as if trying to hold him there. Javert, for his part, was more confused than ever.

Nevertheless, he wanted to follow Madeleine’s directions. Anything to stop those horrible sobs from returning. They ripped at Javert’s ears and made him feel guilty and angry and useless, made him want to hold Madeleine to his chest until they ceased and made him want to hit the man to shut him up- anything to stop them.

He did not pull himself out of Madeleine’s body, but neither did he thrust himself in further. He merely remained as he was, body joined with Madeleine’s, though he had never felt more alienated from the man than he did now.

When it became clear that he was not going to restart the motion of his hips, Madeleine rocked back onto him, spine arching in an attempt to draw Javert’s cock further into him. He was still crying, his sides heaving, but his sobs had been replaced by heavy, wet panting. Javert would have given Madeleine anything then- up to and including the moon on a silver platter- so he pushed forward into Madeleine. His stomach roiled with guilt and his cheeks burnt with shame, but he pulled out and thrust in again, each stroke gaining force if not confidence.

The rougher he was, it seemed, the more Madeleine pushed back on him, and the more he forgot his faint cries and focused on the motion of his body, on arching his back and clutching his arms to the headboard so Javert could get a better angle.

Javert took him savagely, gripping his hips roughly, fingers pressing into muscle and bone hard enough that he knew he must be causing Madeleine pain. He derived little pleasure from it, himself, but Madeleine was writhing like an animal in heat beneath him, and though his moans still held a wet edge they seemed to be ones of bitter satisfaction rather than agony.

He was giving one every second now, one after the other, a hiccuping little cry each time Javert’s cock sunk all the way into him. It was only the power of his arms that stopped Javert’s thrusts from slamming his head into the headboard, and between his arms and Javert’s palms on his hips his abdomen was lifted off the bed, cock pushing wildly at empty air. Javert wanted to take a hand off his hips, wanted to stroke that cock and give Madeleine some relief, but he feared that with the violence of his hips anything less than two hands would mean he would thrust into Madeleine badly, at an angle that caused not just the pain Madeleine seemed to desire but actual lasting damage.

He need not have worried. Several strokes later, when he growled and drove himself particularly harshly into Madeleine, he felt the man tense and shiver around his cock, letting out a sound like a dying cat. At first he thought Madeleine’s mood might have changed again- that the wracking sobs might be making a reappearance- but then Madeleine’s seed spurted in three short pumps against the pillow and headboard, and he collapsed against the bed. He gave great, heaving whimpers into the pillow, boneless and apparently overwhelmed by sensation.

Javert thrust into his unresisting body three more times and then came, quietly, with a little shiver, into Madeleine’s limp form. Rather than feeling any happiness, any satisfaction, he merely felt relief: relief that his part in this disgusting charade was over, relief that Madeleine seemed to have finally gotten what he wanted. His hands were cold and clammy as he peeled them off Madeleine’s hips, and his shriveled cock was uncomfortably damp when he removed it from Madeleine, covered in a disgusting mix of the oil he had used to ease his way, sweat from both of their bodies, his own seed, and the waste from inside Madeleine.

He felt, staring down at what they had done together, a surge of bile rise up in his throat. He was not sure who he hated more in that moment, who disgusted him more thoroughly: himself or Madeleine. Perhaps it was unholy after all, this perversion. Though the law allowed it, he saw now that it was unnatural, an abomination, the very furthest thing from an act of love.

He rose mechanically from the bed, stood before the washbasin on the bedside table and cleaned himself slowly with the ratty cloth that rested on the edge. And then- because he would never have been able to look at Madeleine again had he left him as he was, Javert’s seed dripping out from between his legs and cheek wet with snot, tears, and his own come- he rinsed the cloth as best he could and put it to use on Madeleine, propping him up against the headboard and cupping his face in a hand like a wayward child, though Javert would never have done this for a child.

Madeleine was revolting to him, but he stroked the cloth gently over the man’s face, back and forth, cleaning away salty, stinging tears and dipping the cloth back into the basin, scrubbing at the mucus caked under his nose, brushing away the seed which had migrated from the pillow to his face.

Through all of it Madeleine said nothing, merely watching Javert with sad, weary red eyes, moving and tilting his head obediently for Javert’s hand. Finally, Javert finished with his face, and something made him dip the cloth back in the water again and, rather than moving straight to the space between Madeleine’s legs, run cool, soothing water down his fevered throat. Madeleine leaned into his touch, seeming to find comfort in it, and Javert felt suddenly that what he was doing then was far more intimate than anything he had done earlier in the night.

He still felt disgust at Madeleine’s weakness, but he felt pity, too; and as he ran the damp cloth over the cooling sweat on Madeleine’s torso, the man’s hands came to rest, palms warm and flat, against his sides, and he found himself thinking that perhaps this evening had not been such a colossal mistake after all. Madeleine would ever be a mystery to him, it seemed, but why he had taken Javert into his bed chamber tonight of all nights, when he was mourning some unknown man across France- when Javert had been lingering late over dinner for months now- was something less of one.

Perhaps Madeleine would never think of Javert in the way Javert thought of him, but he would at least know that Javert would willingly offer all the harsh comfort he was capable of, and expect no explanation in return.

When Javert had made his way down Madeleine’s torso, had run wet hands over the mess between his legs, had stroked damp fabric against his sweaty thighs, he rose from his crouch near the bed and began to turn away. As his eyes searched the darkness for his discarded clothes, however, he felt a hand reach out and clutch his wrist.

“Wait,” Madeleine whispered, into the darkness. And then, “Please stay.”

Javert turned to stare at him. Despite his best instincts, he did as he was told; he could not, it seemed, deny Madeleine anything, even when his face was dry, and so he held Madeleine’s gaze as he circled around to the other side of the bed. The room was too warm, even now, to pull the covers up, so he left them at the base of the bed and curled himself around Madeleine, wrapping one large hand over his torso and holding him there, against Javert’s warm chest, as if that would be enough to protect Madeleine from his own thoughts.

Madeleine tilted his head back toward Javert, smiling sadly, and brought the hand wrapped around his chest to his lips, softly. “Thank you,” he whispered, barely audible.

It seemed Javert would never understand this man, but at least he seemed to have done something right. He buried his face in the taller man’s neck and drew him closer, offering what physical comfort he could. If this was the only night Madeleine chose to let him into this room, so be it; at least he will have served his purpose here.


End file.
